


Things He Never Meant To Say

by saphearra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt John, I made myself sad, John Whump, John gets hurt really bad, M/M, Sherlock says mean things, Upset Sherlock, a little violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphearra/pseuds/saphearra
Summary: Sherlock said something he really shouldn't have. He didn't mean what he said, he really didn't. But now he doesn't know what to say at all because John is terribly upset at him and he doesn't want to make it worse. But he has to fix this. He needs to make things right. Or else...who knows what miserable thing could happen.





	1. You Meant it

John sat on the couch watching telly through his legs which were propped up in front of him. He somberly toyed with the arm rest while his other hand held ice to his stomach. He kept his eyes glued to the screen as Sherlock sat carefully on the other end of the couch.  
He looked over at the smaller man, and then turned back to the telly.  
Quietly Sherlock asked, "What are you watching."  
"I don't know."  
"How long have you been sitting like this?"  
"You can't deduce that?"  
"John-"  
"Just drop it."  
"No, John. You're obviously upset."  
John sat perfectly still, never moving his eyes or head.  
"John, I take back what I said. I...I."  
Slamming his feet on the floor sternly the smaller man growled, "Don't."  
John stared at his feet with a heavy silence left amongst them.

Then for the first time that evening he turned to face Sherlock, and looking right into his eyes he whispered, "You meant it. It's okay. I get it."  
Sherlock could see the sincerity and overwhelming sadness all laid out in the person in front of him. And those tiny eight words nearly broke his whole existence. The grief and anger he summoned out of this man was unforgivable.

John sniffed, glanced back at the telly, turned it off, then stood up leaving the room.  
Sherlock could do nothing but sit and gaze at John until he was no longer in the room.  A few seconds later he heard the thump of a bedroom door.  
He closed his eyes before slamming his head into his hands with a heavy breath.  
_How could I be so idiotic? I am not great with human emotions but..._  
He growled and threw the coffee table in frustration. He kicked over some papers and slammed a mug into the kitchen floor. He huffed and decided to get out.  Leaving 221b in a fury he threw on his trench coat, slammed the door, and began to pace around London to figure himself out.  
_Alright let's think this over and find the cause of error_

He let his body keep a steady walking rhythm as he re-entered the day's events.

 

 _Sliding around another street light, Sherlock sprinted in fury. He had been running after a mass murderer and his goonies for almost 30 minutes. At some point he split apart from John and was now trekking a dark corner of London by himself. Edging into an alleyway Sherlock slowed down his pace. It was gloomy and freezing and everything smelled like piss. He and he knew it. He just needed a few minutes to catch the perp off guard. The psycho didn't even know Sherlock was still after him. Slowly and softly he edged closer as a smiled played across his cupid-bow lips. The man was in sight and he was about to confront him._  
_Then there was a scream. A heart-aching, hair-pulling, ear-deafening scream._  
_Eyes wide and panicked he followed the voice and zoomed towards it._  
_All he could think was, "Oh, G-d, that's John. I'm coming. Please be okay. Please."_  
_Skidding his feet, Sherlock rounded a corner and was face to face with a handful or the perp's goons._  
_At the sight of him, one of the blood-thirsty men gripped John by the hair pulling his neck back. Then promptly he snatched a switchblade from his pocket and held it to the open neck._  
_Sherlock stood completely still. John's face was already bleeding from punches and it looked like they had already kicked in his ribs. Sherlock eyed the blade on his exposed neck and tightened his fist._  
_He stepped closer, "Let him go."_

  
Sherlock blinked his watery eyes and put a pale hand to his head. He felt a lady hit his side yelling back, "Watch it!"  
He just adjusted his coat and kept walking.  
He let out a single breath and kept trying to remember. But for some reason things get a bit blurry at this point.

  
_John was lying on the sidewalk, blood soaking the pavement around him. Three guys also unconscious lay not too far from him. The other two got away. There had been gunshots fired and punches thrown. But all Sherlock could think about was his possibly dead doctor._

_His flat-mate, his blogger, his best friend, his everything._

_He slid across the ground and placed a hand on John's shoulder. He was lying on his back and his eyes were shut softly as blood poured from every corner of him._  
_"John? John, wake up. Stay with me. Talk to me!"_  
_Shaking unconscious shoulders Sherlock's panic spread further. John's ocean blue eyes barely opened and his head lolled to the side._  
_"John!"_ _  
_ Barely loud enough to understand, the tall man heard his name being whispered breathlessly.

 _"Sherlock..."_ _  
_ _Bending closer to huddle the other man, Sherlock searched his mind for comforting words._

 _"That's right. I'm here and I got you. Help is on the way, but for now I’m here. And I've always got you, no one is ever going to get you okay? I'm here."_ _  
_ _He wound John tightly into his arms and rocked him back and forth. He held the smaller man's head into his chest and whispered soft enough so no one--not even himself-- could hear, "I love you. Please stay with me. Please. I can’t lose you. I’ll do anything."_

  
When Sherlock snapped back into the present he found himself crying softly. He was a lonely soul in the middle of a desolate street. His whole body shook as he let his tears continue to roll down his face. He walked and cried all the way to the nearest park and sat down on a bench. There he let his tears and torture continue.

  
_Somehow they made it into a hospital. Sherlock held John's hand in the ambulance the whole way there and had to be forced into the waiting room. It took three doctors and a security guard to unlatch Sherlock from John's side. In the end he was left to pace and pace in the waiting room until he was finally allowed in._  
_He pushed, shoved, and ran past all the doctors and visitors in his way until he made it into John's room._  
_When he saw the blond hair, sea blue eyes, and flashing smile, his whole face lit up._ _  
_ He let a relieving breath.

 _"John."_ _  
_ _The doctor, ironically now a patient, smiled._

 _“Hi."_ _  
_ _Sherlock edged closer to the bed and felt a pang of sadness. He scanned the man’s head and body. There were cuts and sores everywhere, besides the ribs…_

 _As if reading his mind the smaller man chuckled, “it’s just a small fracture. It’s not broken.”_ _  
_ _"A ‘small’ fracture? What were you thinking John?"_

_He thought to himself, How could I let him get hurt?_

_Sherlock felt all his fear be replaced with anger and he started screaming._ _  
_ _"I gave you one job and you muck it up! All you had to do was find the perp and get me. And yet you get yourself manhandled? Were you even thinking. Were you even being careful? You just had to get in my way. Honestly why did I even let you come?"_

  
Sherlock opened his eyes again and gripped the bench until his knuckles turned red.

_Why did I say that? That's not what I meant at all. That wasn't meant for him. I was never mad at him._

And he already knew what came next. That part had been playing in his head over and over all day.

  
_John’s blue eyes widened and he sat still. Sherlock on the other hand, was still panting as instant regret hit him._  
_The tall man made a move to set his hand on the other's arm, but John just flinched. A single tear streamed from his left eye as he etched farther away from Sherlock._  
_"Get out."_  
_Breathing hard and trying to find words, Sherlock remained by his side._  
_"I said GET OUT."_  
_"John. I'm--I didn't mean to..."_  
_"NOW."_

  
John blinked through his tears as the days events flashed in his head.  
He found himself stuck to the inside of his bedroom door since he stormed off away from Sherlock and he hadn't been able to move since he slammed the door. If he did he was afraid he'd fall.  
Now with Sherlock gone and the memories fresh in his head, he let his body slide down the door until he was sitting on the cold floor.  
His ribs ached and his head hurt but he couldn’t summon the energy to move.  
_Why did I let myself get so attached?_  
John knew he shouldn't be so upset. Besides, friends get mad at each other all the time. They fight and sometimes they say terrible things. But after that either people either never talk to each other again, or they take a breather from each other and then work it out. Rarely are there so many tears involved and this amount of pain.  
Why am I acting like this?  
Forcing himself to get up John faced himself in the mirror.  
His bloodshot eyes were swollen and his face was almost the color a fire engine.  
He wanted to break the glass and destroy his visage. He removed himself from the mirror and slowly carefully settled onto his bed. He lied so still and gazed into the open window. There weren’t any stars in the sky and the night air chilled his bones. He closed his eyes painfully.

_Just when I thought he said I love you._

With a heavy heart and a few sad hiccups, John Watson drifted off into a slow slumber.


	2. Unwanted Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock is contemplating life, he gets an unwelcome visitor.

Sherlock sat still on the bench in the cold night air. Everything around him was quiet and unmoving. All he could hear was an occasional pedestrian and the jagged rhythm of his breathing. He was trying to think. He was hunched over with his hands in a prayer position under his nose while his elbows rested on his legs.

In his mind he was back at the hospital, running into see John. But all he could see was John screaming at him, then immediately he was back at 221b where John was storming off to his own room. He was left on his own again. The thought of that made him shiver more than the chilly wind.

He tried to think of possible scenarios.

He could walk into John’s room and try to apologize again. But then, John wouldn’t listen and tell him to get out. He’d been trying to apologize all day.

He could pretend like it never happened, both of them ignoring it until it was basically forgotten. But Sherlock knew better than that, neither of them would forget. And it would tear them apart living with lies. It would only end in more anger. Besides Sherlock wouldn’t let John live thinking he didn’t want him around. In fact, Sherlock _needed_ him to stay. What would be a life without John Watson?

So then he would have to explain himself.

_But how do I do that?_

Every time Sherlock tried to explain something people always looked at him like he has 5 eyes. No one ever seemed to be able to follow along—except, well, John. But now he was in a rut because what if John didn’t understand this time. He was very angry, and hurt, and Sherlock himself cannot justify his actions no matter how he felt. It was wrong, and it took him to long to figure it out.

_The deed is done._

And as much as he wanted John to know he needed him to stay, he was terrified to tell John he loved him.

_How do I explain without ruining everything?_

Sherlock took his hand from under his nose and smashed them into his face. He ran an angry hand through his curls and sat back on the bench. Growling he closed his eyes and tried to think further. He was calming his breath and settling his mind when he felt another presence next to him.

Immediately Sherlock popped open his eyes and hissed, “Mycroft, go away.”

“Dear brother mine, it’s nice to see you as well. Although how I wish you would stop pouting like a child. Why do I always have to come to scrape you up from the ditches that you have dug yourself?”

“I didn’t ask for you, nor do I want you.”

“Sherlock, do please save your attitude for cherished Scotland Yard. I mean look at yourself, need I remind you that car—“

Sherlock snapped his neck his face his brother in disgust, “Caring is not the advantage? Well what would you know about caring? What would you know about anything that would have to do about friendship? What would you know about _family_.”

He stood and screamed into Mycroft’s face, “What would you know about love?”

Surprised and appalled, Mycroft removed himself from the bench and stared at his brother.

Shaking his head slowly, he muttered “Look at yourself, Sherlock. You ask me what love is. Well think about it! It’s a waste of time. A silly fantasy that sends people off to do stupid things and fall into emotional holes. Love is an imaginative neurochemical lie. It doesn’t make you any happier in the end Sherlock. It just makes you angrier, and alone.”

Sherlock spat, “Of course you know what loneliness feels like.”

Mycroft took a step forward, “On the contrary, I am content to myself because I never crave the feeling of others. You on the other hand are proving to be another case. And such a pity too, I thought more of you.”

Both of them stared at each other with only about three inches of space between them. Sherlock’s face, red and frustrate, held snarled lips and a furrowed brow. His breathing remained heavy and his fists were clenched and shaky. However, the man across from him had a look of disdain across his face.

Sherlock stepped a few paces away from his brother and scoffed, “I thought more of you too.”

“What?”

“You told me ‘caring is not the advantage’ that love is nothing but a ‘neurochemical lie’. How would you know Mycroft you never loved anyone but yourself…It’s not a lie, or a fantasy, or false hope or dream. I used to be like you, and it disgusts me to say it, but I use to believe feelings were useless. But I was given another reason to live. I have something else to look forward too, and I can finally realize that life isn’t pointless. It’s true _I have_ felt alone before, but I don’t need to anymore. I’ve got someone to be happy with.”

The other Holmes smiled, “But you don’t. See where caring got you?”

And then it came to him, like a bat hitting him across the temple. Sherlock figured out the only thing he could do.

“I just have to tell him the truth. All of it.”

“And what good will that do you? What is he doesn’t accept.”

“Then I will have tried, and my life won’t be a lie like yours.”

“Sherlock don’t continue your mistakes.”

The consulting detective shook his head, and then began to laugh to the point where he was almost choking. He stood up straight, buttoned his trench coat and walked towards his brother

Leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft straightened his back, and raised an eyebrow. He saw his brother’s hand fall on his shoulder and felt a soft squeeze.

“Don’t come to me even again. I mean it, Mycroft.”

And with that Sherlock flipped up his collar against the wind and began to walk back to the flat. Mycroft remained in the same spot, staring wide-eyed at the shoulder that had just been touched. Pulling himself together, he glanced up to find a lone stranger walking away from him into the vast foggy distance.


End file.
